Rebecca had been following Greg and Cynthia on Interstate 20 since they left Coreyville, maintaining enough separation so she wouldn’t be noticed. It was easy to keep track of Greg’s 1965 Bonneville. You don’t see many of those on the road these days, thought Rebecca. She was a little envious, although she loved her 1979 Lincoln Continental.

Fifty miles out of Dallas, the rattle she had been ignoring got much louder. Not now, she thought. She wanted to stay close to Greg and Cynthia, in hopes that she could intervene if Larry Luzor showed up.

From what little she knew of the couple, she liked them, and would hate to see them harmed. But her primary motiva­tion was the burning desire to take revenge on her partner’s killer. Saving the newlyweds in the process would just be a nice fringe benefit.

The racket got even louder.

Rebecca knew a little something about cars. She had spent many hours out under the old oak tree, handing tools to her dad.

“Sweetie, could you give me the 9/16 inch socket?”

“Is it this one, Daddy?”

“No, Honey, that’s a 9/16 inch box-end wrench. It’s the right size. But what I need is a socket—you know, it’s round and—“

“—like this?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks.”

He would always explain in great detail what he was doing and why. That time he rebuilt the carburetor on the old Buick and ended up with parts left over, she thought he’d go nuts trying to figure it out. But he finally got it all back together and working.

She was 95% certain she was hearing the rear universal joint break down. And she knew if it completely fell apart, the back end of the drive shaft could hit the road and that might pull it out of the transmission. Then the drive shaft might roll across the highway and cause other cars to wreck.

She pulled over to the side of the highway and watched the taillights of the red convertible get smaller and fade away. Now she would have to call for a tow truck. She was disgusted with herself. The noise had started weeks ago. Why hadn’t she taken the time to get it fixed then?

No sooner than she had called for a tow, she saw headlights coming up behind her. Maybe it was state trooper. But she couldn’t see any lights on top. A man got out of the car and walked to her door.

“Hey, Lady, got trouble?”

He leaned down to look in the driver’s window and saw a pistol pointed at his face.

“Whoa, take it easy, Rebecca. It’s me—Sandy.”

She lowered the gun. “What are you doing here?”

“I was driving home—like you. And I saw what I thought was your car on the side of the road and figured you were in trouble. I just wanted to help. But I nearly got my head blown off. You’re dangerous, Woman.”

“I’m sorry, Sandy. Have you been following me all the way from Coreyville?”

“No, like I said, I wasn’t even sure this was your car. I drove through McDonalds on the way out of town, so you had some lead time.”

“You were hungry again? After all those sandwiches you ate at the reception?”

“Yep. So, what’s wrong with your car?”

“Rear U-joint.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not a car guy, are you?”

“I just drive ‘em. Can I give you a lift?”

“No, thanks. I can ride in on the tow truck. I just called them.”

“Well, then I’ll just hang around until they get here.”

“Oh, I hate for you to have to wait. I’m sure you’d like to get on home.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, okay. Thanks.”

**********

Chaucey checked the site for the fourth time in five min­utes. What was taking him so long? She needed to read the next chapter.

She searched for another online book to read. Most were not as good as his, but she needed something to occupy her time while she waited. She was a voracious reader. And she had plenty of time to read. At 27, she lived alone in her apart­ment in Katy, Texas, just west of Houston.

Chaucey Reed was the product of an English literature pro­fessor and a psychiatrist. They had agreed to have but one child, which would be a boy. But, she had disappointed them by being a girl. It had been her mother’s plan to name her son Geoffrey Chaucer, after her idol, the English author, poet, philosopher, and diplomat.

After a brief disagreement, the Drs. Reed decided to use the name anyway. Geoffrey Chaucer Reed. They would call her Chaucey. Yes, that was perfectly acceptable. To them. She hated her name. But she did, begrudgingly, admire Chaucer. And she had read his works numerous times.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman with long, dark brown hair. Upon entering a room, men would flock to her. But one by one they would walk away disappointed—not because they were rejected, but because of her snobbishness. She was always the smartest person in the room—and she’d let you know it. Not that she’d been in many rooms with other people recently.

She made a good living as a free-lance graphic artist. And her work rarely required her to leave her apartment. She had become a hermit—only venturing out when absolutely neces­sary. She didn’t even go out to shop. She had groceries and other items delivered to her door. Anything she needed could be ordered online.

There was not one television in her home. She didn’t care for the medium. Why let actors attempt to tell her a story that would play out much more vividly in her own imagination. The only way to get the full impact of a story was to read it. She didn’t understand why everybody didn’t feel that way. Ignorant peasants were they.

Few of the walls in her apartment could still be seen. She had neatly stacked her thousands of books from floor to ceiling along nearly every wall.

She couldn’t bear to part with any of her precious tomes, yet there was no room to add more. Her solution was to begin reading electronic books. She scoured the internet for books she could read online or download. Some were free, others were not. It didn’t matter. Money was not an issue. She just needed a constant supply of new reading material.

She found a huge volume of older literature, which she did enjoy. But she preferred modern mysteries and thrillers. And, at a rate of two books per day, it soon became clear she would eventually run out.

Some unpublished authors were posting their novels online. She liked perusing their books, but found most lacking in qual­ity.

Then she came across a new mystery being written by Barry Undermine. She had never heard of him, but thought his style sounded familiar. She found herself strangely fascinated by his writing. Unlike the work of many would-be novelists, his cha­racters and story rang true. And she had become hooked.

But the problem was that she couldn’t zip through this book in her usual manner. He was posting each chapter as he wrote it. It was driving her crazy having to wait.

And the more she read, the more enthralled she became with the writer. To her, the man was powerful and dangerous and sexy. She wished she could meet him. And it took a lot to make her want to venture out of her apartment.

And in his tyme swich a conqueror,

She would throw off her cloak of fearfulness and plunge headlong through the dreaded maze of ignorant masses—if her journey would lead her into the presence of this intriguing, mysterious man. But she wondered…was she drawn to the writer…or to his murderous main character? Or were they one and the same?

She was frightened, yet invigorated by her wild, impetuous thoughts.

Barry’s story was taking place in East and North Texas. And he seemed to know that part of the country so well that she suspected he lived there. Perhaps she would write to him and propose a meeting.

She had a picture she could send him. It was four years old, but her looks had changed very little in that time. It was one of those glamour shots taken in a studio. She was lying across a white furry blanket in a bikini. The photographer begged her to go out with him. She refused.

The picture was for a doctor ex-boyfriend she was trying to win back. Her plan failed.

What if she sent Barry Undermine that picture, along with an offer to satisfy the darkest desires of his heart?

Could he resist such an offer?

She trembled at the thought.